Maladies of Elegance
by phollie
Summary: This man could have anything - but he will take none of it. Not from this family. Claude Nightray introspection on his step-sibling - set before Gilbert contracts Raven.


I've never, ever seen any Claude fic, so here's my attempt. And of course I had to throw Gilbert into it because of reasons.

I own nothing.

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><p>prompt: 158. you must fear what you cannot know<p>

soundtrack: john harrington – goldmund

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**.maladies of elegance**

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The study is a hollow of cold shadows and dying candlelight when Claude Nightray, sleepless and tense, slips inside. Still dressed in his day clothes in spite of the late hour, he carries with him an unspeakably taut air, nerves strung tight and hand jittery as he closes the door behind him. In his haste for a confined, lonely sanctuary – for Claude has always been the black sheep of this family, hasn't he? – he wastes no time in flattening his back against the door, closing his eyes, and taking a long, deep breath through his nose (or as deep of a breath as his pathetic sinuses can handle in their state of dismay; he hates springtime for a reason, after all).

Part of the reason why he comes here during these moments of unfounded stress is that he knows precisely what he'll see upon opening his eyes. He has this entire room memorized, from the angles of the mahogany bookcases as they jut from the wall, to every gaudy magnolia flower painted into the royal blue wallpaper, to the exact surface area of the Persian rug that splays along the hardwood. This room holds no surprises, no twists, nothing to set him even more on edge than he is on a day to day basis already.

So, naturally, Gilbert is the last thing he expects to find when he opens his eyes. But nevertheless, there he is, all wary gazes and parted lips as he looks over his shoulder at him as if Claude were wielding a knife. He stands by the window like some pale romantic, his shirt loose about his chest and dark hair falling sloppily out of its ribbon, and the sight of it makes Claude's nerves jump in agitation; is this man so much of a child that he can't even keep his hair in order? Moreover, why doesn't that fastidious brother of his keep an eye on such a thing, given his manner of constantly having them on Gilbert to begin with? Disturbing.

As it stands, though, Claude is far more absorbed in why _Gilbert,_ of all people, is _here,_ of all places. Clearing his throat, he ensures that his voice is as steely as possible when he says, "What business do you have here?"

Gilbert blinks. His eyelashes are annoyingly long, like wispy black wings. "None," is his soft, flat reply.

"Then what brings you here?"

Claude watches the flimsy Adam's apple of Gilbert's throat bob in a tense swallow as his eyes drift off somewhere to the left, their uncanny gold colored with a somber darkness that Claude doesn't have the energy nor will to sift through. Gilbert is infamous for being a moody piece of work to begin with, and to serve this display of moroseness any thought is as futile as rooting out a reason for it. Claude doubts that Gilbert even _has_ a reason, if he ever has one at all.

"I…couldn't sleep. That's all." Gilbert's slender hand reaches for the windowsill behind him, as if he may very well topple over at any second; Claude wouldn't be surprised if he did, what with how he always seems to appear as though a stiff wind would knock him right over.

In any case, Claude regards Gilbert's excuse with a bemused sniff and a turn of his head, gaze settling on the gaudy brass bookend sitting on the edge of the desk. "I'm surprised you didn't simply smoke off your insomnia, what with your…_habit._"

Gilbert visibly bristles, the clean line of his jaw tightening for one tense moment, before he clears his throat and gives a stiff shrug. His shirt dangles precariously off one shoulder, threatening to slip off completely, and Claude wishes he would assess it at once – it's distracting. But instead of doing that, Gilbert reaches behind his head and shakily pulls the ribbon out of his hair, sliding it back and forth behind his neck. "Sorry," is all he says.

Oh, for what? What _this_ time? Claude openly scoffs, rolling his eyes as he turns his head and swipes under his nose with the back of his hand; he doubts Gilbert noticed, what with his steadfast habit of avoiding eye contact, but it doesn't hurt to be mindful – with sinuses as fussy as Claude's, he prefers not to take any chances being caught wiping his nose like a child, not even in the presence of one. "Ah, another habit of yours," he muses, quiet and dry, "apologizing whenever you have nothing better to say."

"There _isn't_ anything better to say…"

"There never is."

Gilbert's gaze lifts to the ceiling. Such a melancholy face – had he possessed a disposition that didn't warrant such foolishness, Claude almost thinks the man would fit in quite splendidly here in this manor, with all its pale, Gothic grace and colorless charm. The only sign of life in him at first glance is in the lucid gold of his eyes, and even _that's_ bogged down with such heavy grief that it's nearly deadened beneath the weight of it.

Claude doesn't understand him. This man could have the arm of any woman he pleases, and yet chooses to waste his nights tucking away into lonely studies, frowning out of windows like some subject in a mediocre painting – his presence, however soft and unassuming it may be, withholds a certain coldness to it, a certain chill that for _whatever_reason seems to set every weak and flighty heart aflame with a passion that Gilbert likely doesn't even care for; he holds all the mad elegance of a raven, of the very same chain that this house harbors, and that may or may not set Claude's stomach on edge as much as he'd like to admit – not that that _matters_, though, seeing as Gilbert couldn't _ever_ possibly contract Raven, not before a true Nightray heir could. Claude, for all his icy shrewdness, is at least confident in that much.

But he won't pretend that it doesn't unsettle him. Everything about Gilbert unsettles him, from his pitchy, breathless voice that always seems an octave too high, to his heavy gaze that never knows what to land on, to the sleek line of his collarbone bidding him a shy hello from beneath his shirt. All of it bothers him, makes him grit his teeth, _agitates_ him.

Hell, why are they even still _here? _

"You should return to your own quarters," Claude says, turning away so as to wipe his nose again. "Some of us come to this study for other purposes besides moping about with our shirts half-open." _Like hiding or staving off boredom until the sun comes up, _Claude doesn't add, but Gilbert doesn't have to know that.

Gilbert flushes, his high cheekbones dusted an abashed pink, before he looks down at his shirt and quickly clasps it together. "Yes," he mutters, "sorry."

And there he goes again. Claude is just about to rebuke him, only to realize that he's far too mentally exhausted after just five minutes in his presence and tunes him out instead. He hears the shuffling of the man's feet as he leaves his spot at the window and approaches the door, only to pause as Claude stands before it, unmoving. Gilbert's chest puffs up in a shaky breath that expels with a hoarse, meek, "Pardon."

This man could have anything – but he will take _none of it_. Not from this family. Not from Claude's splintered pride that hardens and chills over as he stiffly steps aside to let Gilbert pass, fumble for the doorknob, and swiftly make his way out of the study and into the shadows of the corridor. Claude's gaze remains fixed on the window for a long moment before he huffily swipes at his runny nose and shuts the door again, finally –_ irrefutably_ – alone.

It's never as relieving as he needs it to be.


End file.
